


Of Kingdoms and Handkerchiefs

by Genuinelies



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Deaths Mentioned, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 15:12:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3138917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Genuinelies/pseuds/Genuinelies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In one reality, a king dies; in another he lives. A short fix-it fic that references canon but does not live in it. </p>
<p>"In the end it doesn’t matter; in whatever reality you find, lived or died, stayed or went, there was a burglar, and a king, and both were better for having known the other."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Kingdoms and Handkerchiefs

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really sorry this is so short - I just never thought I could even attempt at writing in the Tolkien fandom. So here's my first try.

He had once thought that he would gladly die for his people.

When cowardice and weariness proved stronger than loyalty, he then thought that he would gladly die for his home. A home burned and littered with the ash of his kin; a home occupied by a terrible nightmare.

When he had reclaimed his home and madness swept in like a bird returning to nest, a madness he had thought himself immune to and to which he had yet foresworn progeny as tribute, he thought he would gladly die for the gold and treasure of Erebor.

As its talons sunk into his mind, he then thought: Why should he be the one to die? Why not the elves, or the men who sought his gold? Why not the traitor, the one who had given away the most precious birthright known to the line of Durin, the Arkenstone? 

So it was a surprise when it was shame he would gladly die for, in the end; his faults and not his heroism that claimed him.

No, not shame, not shame exactly, but a hobbit. A hobbit whom he owed his life and his dying breath.

Apologies tumbled from Thorin Oakenshield’s lips as he died; his last sight was forgiveness shining forth from the eyes of one he had no right to call friend. The hobbit’s tears were worth more to him than the jewels he would have killed him over, not a day ago.

He died then for a hobbit, and he did so gladly, for maybe then at least one of them could go to a home they had earned.

But there is another reality in which this story lives; just as there is another reality to every world that lives. 

*****

Another Thorin’s breath sputtered out in blood, his back numbed by the ice, just as every other Thorin has done; but this Thorin drew another breath, and it was drawn in pain, his eyes opening to the sight of a she-elf who shone like starlight.

There ended the dream. The world was grey, the air scented with death. The white lady staggered, becoming paler as Gandalf caught her with a look so full of devotion it hurt Thorin to see.

His efforts to talk ended in coughing that brought forth tearful smiles from Oin and Balin, who stood by his side. They began tending to him immediately, joined a moment later by other dwarven healers and to his surprise, an elvish one as well.  
It never crossed his mind that his thoughts should have been on his people, or the Arkenstone, or Erebor, and not on the safety of a hobbit.

His efforts to communicate his concerns resulted in the elf looking entirely too amused as he forced a vile-smelling liquid down his throat, which nevertheless brought him sleep.

*****

When he woke again, the elf healer was by his side, and Oin was sleeping in the corner. His thoughts were no longer on the hobbit, but on his nephews, his kin, his dearest, his heirs.

He rasped out an inquiry that sent the elf barking out a quick order. Someone outside the tent moved quickly away.

“I must speak with Balin,” Thorin managed to cough, before the elf sent him back to slumber.

*****

In another reality, Thorin Oakenshield knew he and his kin could not possibly be so lucky. But in this one there were broken bones and wounds that might fester before they healed, but he was assured his nephews still lived.

Perhaps, he thought, he could die knowing Erebor was in good hands, hands free of the reins of madness.

*****

Thorin did not die, gladly or otherwise. He obstinately healed, gruffly accepted ministrations from a Mirkwood elf, and wallowed in the memories of his actions, which became clearer as his mind strengthened.

“I do not deserve to be called King Under the Mountain,” he said firmly to Balin.

The old dwarf looked down his nose at him, easy as he was still lying on his back like a babe. “But you’ve done it. You’ve brought us home. You have saved us all.”

“The madness took me. I nearly…”

Balin’s hand was a gentle pressure on his shoulder, one of the only parts of him left uninjured. “We have never once wavered in our loyalty to you, Thorin. Do not ask it of us now. There are forces in this world more powerful even than kings, and you have managed to overcome those that challenged you.”

“At what price?”

Now that he could speak, he found he didn’t have the heart.

Where is our burglar?

The words died unspoken on his tongue.

*****

They moved him from the battlefield tent to his chambers in Erebor, once they could spare workers to clean the halls and rooms enough to be habitable. The familiar columns and trappings, though rich with dust, caused his cheeks to wet. He was walking by then, though he leaned heavily on a staff made for him by an elf. He found the irritation to his pride kept him focused, but it was not lost on him that he used it also as punishment for his failures.

The Arkenstone had been offered to him, and he had accepted; his blood still sang with its triumph even as it sickened him. It was sheer willpower that gave him the strength to have Dain take it on his behalf, and had it sent to a vault that spoke of both its stature and its danger, sealed with a company of riches. In return the elf king got his due from Erebor’s hoard, and he saw to it that Bard of Dale received what had been promised to him as well. It was thus that quietly, Thorin began his duties as regent.

The madness never reclaimed him; not then, and not in all his days after. The mountain had breathed out the last breath of Smaug.

*****

Thorin regained his vigor, and his purpose, and finally he learned that the hobbit – that Bilbo Baggins – had returned to his shire as he lay on his sickbed. Part of his heart warmed at the news, and the flame was enough to light the path to his own home. He was sworn in as King; his nephews formally instated as his heirs, on their feet once more. The arduous and less glorious task of rebuilding a kingdom went underway. Dain remained by Thorin’s side, and he accepted his cousin’s help. A dwarf’s pride, it seemed, could in fact be chiseled and smoothed by the diamond of shame.

*****

It had taken many hours for Thorin to convince his friends to wait in Bree, but in the end his desperation won over their hearts and even Dwalin relented. He travelled on alone, thinking back far more than a year ago when he had made the same journey with a vastly different hope.

His first knock on the round wooden door was an embarrassment, and he could only hope that the home’s occupant hadn’t heard his weak attempt. Bolstering himself, he landed his fist solidly on the door, in a manner befitting a dwarf, and a king.

“Go away,” shouted the voice from within the hobbit-hole, as expected. “I don’t want any solicitations or visitors. Kindly read the sign and save us both a bother.”

Surprised, Thorin took a half step back. There was indeed a sign planted in the ground, painted with the exact words that Bilbo had just shouted at him.

A hint of a smile twisted his lips, but doubt twisted them down again.

“I have travelled a long way, Master Burglar. Perhaps you would make an exception.” Thorin’s throat constricted. Of course, this was a mistake. He had left his newly born kingdom on a journey of self-indulgence. He was owed no relief from his conscience; why had he thought to seek just that?

The door however swung open. Bilbo Baggins, wide-eyed, swallowed visibly, and then went very still. 

“I know I have no right to be here,” Thorin began thickly.

By the time Thorin realized what was happening he was too late; Bilbo lay sprawled on his own welcome mat, out cold.

*****

“So it really is you.”

Thorin looked up from where he sat on the floor to where Bilbo lay in his armchair with his feet propped up. 

“Slowly,” he cautioned, helping Bilbo move to a more upright position and then handing him a glass of water. “Is it this house of yours, or dwarves in it that weakens your otherwise hearty constitution, Master Baggins?”

“I rather expect that in this instance, it is seeing someone you thought was dead,” Bilbo said flatly.

“…dead? No, I did not die.”

“I can see that. But no one told me.”

“Ah. Balin said you left for the shire; I will need to ask him about the circumstances.” Thorin heard his voice go grimly dark.

“Well, you had banished me, Thorin,” Bilbo looked perplexed. He stood, setting the glass on the small table. “And I hadn’t exactly had much of a conversation with any of them before I left, so it’s not their fault they didn’t know differently.”

“I had taken those words back!”

“You were dying at the time, and really, it was the word of a King over the word of a hobbit, and a thief at that,” Bilbo wore the tight little smile that spoke of self-deprecation and sadness. “I couldn’t very well go back to Erebor after two armies heard that, now could I? Whether or not you meant it.”

“I was mad at the time!” Thorin roared.

“Of course, you were angry, there is that,” Bilbo’s hand was fingering something in his pocket, as he so often did when he was agitated. “But I thought that you had said you hadn’t-“

“No. The madness had claimed me. You know that better than anyone. Please.” Thorin’s voice broke. “Please stop talking around my words. I am King Under the Mountain, Master Burglar.”

Bilbo just swallowed, his eyes flicking sideways before meeting Thorin’s steadily. He had never been one to flinch away from rebuke, or danger.

How Thorin Oakenshield had underestimated him. No place in his company, indeed.

“I am King Under the Mountain, and yet as I lay dying, it was not my kingdom, it was not my people, it was not my home and it was not the damnable Arkenstone that was on my mind. It was the harm that I had caused you, the words I had spoken, the hands I raised against you and the love that I have felt for you.” Thorin swept his gaze over Bilbo’s face. The hobbit had gone very still.

“Come again?” Bilbo finally asked.

Thorin Oakenshield knelt. “You have the allegiance of a king. I have no right to ask it of you, no right,” he choked. His eyes clenched shut.

Hands suddenly clutched his face, and fingers ran through his hair. The hobbit knocked their foreheads together in a very dwarven gesture that surprised Thorin into meeting Bilbo’s eyes.

They were crinkled in something that could have been amusement or pain. In confusion he tried to pull back but Bilbo’s grip was firm.

“You have had my allegiance from the day I forgot my handkerchiefs,” Bilbo said slowly, “and you have had my love quite more recently than that, but still you have had it for longer than I daresay you’ve noticed.” He swallowed again. “I can’t say it’s proper for hobbits to love dwarves, and it’s certainly not proper for hobbits to – well,” he coughed. “Not that it isn’t done, mind you.”

Thorin had felt himself pale, and he couldn’t quite follow Bilbo’s train of thought.

“But I think I’ve already earned my fair share of notoriety, so I am very much doubtful a little more will do any harm to my reputation. It’s tarnished beyond polishing, I’d say.” Bilbo straightened, and tugged down on his gold vest. It was so clean, and the white shirt beneath it so crisp and pristine, that Thorin again felt the tug of guilt on his stomach.

“Dwarves don’t have anything against…against this, do they?” Bilbo gestured between them, looking suddenly anxious.

“You will be my royal consort, if you come with me to Erebor,” Thorin promised dazedly. “You will be treated like a king. You will –“

“No, no, I don’t want any of that, I just – I just don’t want to be shunned. Or banished, or for you to lose the throne over-“

“Why would any of that happen?” Thorin growled.

“Well. It’s just that the last time I left, it took a very long while for me to get all my things back from the auction. I’d rather not have to get this home in order in that way a second time. But – ah, a moment ago. What did you say about a consort?”

“I should not have come,” Thorin said. He raised himself heavily to his feet, and shook his head in a daze. “You belong here. I have been so selfish, again…”

“Thorin,” Bilbo looked at him, tilting his head. “Did you really just say…ah, did you really just…”

Thorin barely heard him. He looked around at the odds and ends that brought Bilbo Baggins happiness: Trinkets, heirlooms, rugs, throws, small spaces and everything made of wood. Perhaps the madness hadn’t left after all, but had shifted to something more subtle and still as harmful.

“…consort? Thorin, look at me, please.”

Thorin did so. The hobbit’s expression was nearing pleased, though the trace of worry hadn’t left it. 

Apparently Bilbo saw something in his face that reassured him, because he visibly relaxed. “It appears I’ve wasted a lot of time and effort coming all this way back, haven’t I?” His eyes grew softer. “You never had any reason to doubt my friendship, Thorin. I had hoped you had known that, after everything.”

“How could you after what I’ve done?”

“But you’re here, aren’t you?”

“A fool’s errand.”

“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? I’ve, I have loved you, Thorin, King Under the Mountain. I have loved you. There. Please. Please, hear that. When I thought I’d lost you, when you – you looked like you had died.” Bilbo’s voice caught. He cleared his throat stoically. “You looked like you had died. And I wasn’t coming back here because it was home. I was coming back because I was running.”

“From what?” Thorin’s voice was soft, overcome.

“It felt like a dream I had woken from, and could never go back to, and it was better than what I had known before and would ever know again.”

Thorin took a step forward, and brought his body together with the hobbit’s. He had to bend, but all in all the difference wasn’t so great. It was Bilbo who pressed his lips to Thorin’s first, and Thorin couldn’t help the sigh he breathed out into his mouth.

When finally they pulled apart, Bilbo’s face lightened. “Right, of course. Well, I’ll need a couple days. To get things in order, that is, I don’t want those Sacksville-Bagginses getting their grubby mitts on my- oh, maybe it doesn’t matter after all. You know, if I forget my handkerchiefs, there’s a good chance I won’t even come back for them.” He threw his hands up a little helplessly, and Thorin laughed with him. 

He could not remember the last time that sound had come from his throat.

When was home not a home?

Or perhaps the better question was when a kingdom had become a hobbit.

Either way, he very much suspected the hobbit was wondering when a dwarf had become a handkerchief.

*****

This story has another reality yet; in that place, that Thorin lived, and that Bilbo stayed.

In the end it doesn’t matter; in whatever reality you find, lived or died, stayed or went, there was a burglar, and a king, and both were better for having known the other.


End file.
